


The Siphoning of Cory Ross

by caprizant



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Blooddrain, Dallas Steaks - Freeform, Horror, Internet League Blaseball Season 10, Rest In Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:27:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27316243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caprizant/pseuds/caprizant
Summary: As his teammates mourn the death of one pitcher and welcome another, Cory Ross is distracted by a change happening to his body. He is so thirsty lately, and he's about to have a very interesting tenth season whether he likes it or not.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	1. Chapter 1

The blaseball season was over, and the George Foreman Stadium was empty except for one man. By the light of the jumbotron, Cory Ross was sweeping the dugout.

He kept his head down, eyes fixed on the floor and his task, refusing to look up at it. But the shifting wash of colors around his shadow still told him when the slide changed, and he had internalized the rotation while he focused on gathering the ash with his broom.

 _“You really don’t have to do this,”_ Philomena had told him, after Cory had informed her of his intentions. _“Really, Cory, I can hire that job out.”_ Her voice had been kind, but Cory knew the pain in her eyes matched the look on his face, and he politely declined. He felt deep in his bones, in his very blood, that he had to do this himself. And he knew Phil would understand that, too; she had always been protective of August. 

Right on cue, the light from the jumbotron switched to a cheery golden-pink glow, and Cory held his breath. For a moment he wanted to shut his eyes tight, to block out even the color that looked out over the stadium so mockingly, but he knew if he did that he’d not have the strength to finish that night. So instead, he allowed himself ten seconds to hold his breath, turning to peek a moment at the giant, glaring screen, focusing on the left side of it.

The picture of August Mina there had been chosen, collectively, by the team. August looked smiling, hopeful, intent and confused all at once, standing on her tiptoes doing her best to try and include Connor’s face in the selfie with her. Cory pointedly did _not_ look at the right side of the jumbotron, which he had seen quite enough already. It was a contrasting photo of August, the last one ever taken of her: a close-up of her face as the umpires closed around her, panicked and afraid. The umpires had been singing, a low-throated canticle that echoed in the skulls of the assembled Steaks.

**_“Rejoice ~ for ~ your ~ team ~ has ~ been ~ blessed”_ **

Those same words, twisted and mocking, were displayed on the jumbotron now between the two pictures of August, along with the dates of her birth and incineration.

Cory turned away from the jumbotron and concentrated on his sweeping, gathering up August’s ashes as lovingly and respectfully as he could. His palm itched as he gripped the broomhandle, giving the floor his practiced ol’ once-over, nodding solemnly at the job well done. He put his hand over his heart as he stood up straight, unable to resist pressing down to rub his itching palm against his shirt as he bid August farewell.

The light from the jumbotron changed again, and in the flicker, Cory realized there was something glittering within August’s ashes. His lips twitched beneath his mustache in curiosity, and he leaned on his broom like a staff as he carefully reached down. His face fell as his fingers closed around a small chain buried in the ash. It was August’s idol medallion, a special golden one that meant she was the most popular player on the team. Cory’s heart ached as he pulled out the medal, a small triangle dangling from the chain. The medallion’s emblem—shaped like a team pennant—was inscribed with August’s jersey number and initials. Cory ran his thumb gently over the inscription. Conner would want this.

Cory moved to put the pennant in his pocket, and blinked in mild pain as the chain caught on his hand. Carefully withdrawing his hand, he held it before his face and inspected his palm. There, where it had been itching, was a small red blotch in his flesh, some kind of sore. He must have blistered himself while sweeping, clutching the broom as tight as he had been. His palm itched again as he looked at it, but he decided against irritating it further, and distracted himself by idly scratching his chest instead. Maybe Philomena was right and he _had_ pushed himself too far with this. But cleaning up was in his blood, and he felt he owed it to August as her teammate to say goodbye the only way he knew how. Mindful of his grip, Cory adjusted his hands on the broom and he silently finished his grim sweeping.

His palm was still itching in the parking lot as he approached his orange hatchback. It was, more or less, the last car still here, and the hatch of its trunk was propped wide open. He could hear a shifting sound as he approached his vehicle, the only other noise apart from his echoing footsteps. A wet, black spot appeared from within his car, and then a second, each followed by a canine muzzle.

“Good girls,” Cory said, placing one hand on one of Sixpack’s heads as the others all greeted him in turn. “You’re a very good girls. Thanks for waiting,” Cory said, and he felt one pair of ears twitch as the six-headed dog listened to him. His voice lowered slightly as he added, “Even more importantly, thanks for giving me a moment alone.”

Sixpack tilted a head back, bumping his fingers with her nose, two of her other heads tilting to the side as if to tell him he was welcome, it was nothing, really, anytime. A fourth head sniffed in the direction of his other hand, the last two heads giving soft _boofs_ of concern and disapproval. 

“Oh, this?” Cory asked as Sixpack examined the sore spot on his hand. “It’s okay, it’s nothing. Here, look out, I’m closing the trunk.” The conglomerate canines turned obligingly, collar jingling as she moved through the backseat of the car to meet him up in shotgun. Six heads all turned to regard him with six lolling tongues, and Cory pet her again. Since Sixpack had found an apartment not far from Cory’s place, the two of them had been carpooling to the stadium ever since Sixpack had joined the Steaks as their new pitcher. They’d become fast friends, and Cory hoped that was a good sign for things to come with the _new_ new pitcher that was replacing August.

“Did I ever tell you I was afraid of dogs when I was just a baby?” Cory asked, waiting at a red light for his turn. Sixpack _boofed_ in curiosity and fake-offense. “Yeah, I know! It was just because when I was four, I was trying to get attention at a Christmas party by riding my auntie’s dog around the house. Fell right off, bang!” He slapped himself upside the head with his unwounded palm, a broad grin shining under his mustache. “Didn’t go near them for a while after that. Good for us those times passed, right?” Sixpack _boofed_ in agreement, one of her heads looking to the radio. “Good idea,” Cory said, flicking it on just in time to catch the weather forecast.

A bloodstorm was hitting Dallas soon, and Cory was glad he’d swept the arena before the rain had made the mess even more morbid. Especially since their first game of the season was an Away game, anyways. But hrm? The forecast was predicting blooddrain in Seattle, too. What were the odds.


	2. Chapter 2

**Season 10**

_ Day 4 _

* * *

The stay in Seattle had been rough, with three consecutive losses to start the season, but the road games continued. Philadelphia brought the Steaks a much needed win, but Cory had excused himself from celebrating with the others. The blooddrain was here in Philly, too, and the forecast was calling for even more tomorrow. Cory had never particularly cared for blooddrain—raining peanuts was technically just as messy, but easier to sweep up at least—but it had never filled him with anything more than mild anxiety.

This year felt worse.

And whatever was happening to his body didn’t help calm his nerves, either.

Cory stood alone in the hotel bathroom, shirt off, feeling at his chest. The aching he’d felt in the stadium back in Dallas had never fully gone away, and this morning he’d woken up to find a small black growth over his heart. Alarmed, he’d scrubbed at it, but it didn’t go away, and it didn’t seem to hurt. It was larger now, but still painless; if Cory wasn’t staring at it, he’d never know it was there.

All this was disturbing enough already, but Cory wasn’t only seeing it on himself. Even after he’d gotten dressed, the growth was still visible through his shirt, and he saw the same mark on every one of the Steaks at breakfast. No one said anything about it, and when he’d turned to the side and asked Rai about it in a whisper, she’d only raised an eyebrow and teasingly felt his forehead for fever.

Of course, even if it had been a fever, he’d still have been forced to play. Blaseball players always took the field, no matter their physical condition, and nothing short of death was an excuse. (Sometimes, not even that.) Cory had been anxious about his performance, but that nervousness turned into something else entirely once the game had started. 

Looking across the field, Cory had seen the same black growth on the chest of every Pies player. Round, simple, and clearly visible right through their jerseys. Like little plastic drain-stoppers plugged right into their hearts. None of the Pies took any more notice than the Steaks had, and they didn’t seem to affect how anyone played.

Even now, at the end of the day, the dread Cory had felt had softened into a more casual alarmed curiosity. The growth, or plug, or whatever it was, wasn’t sore or irritating anymore. He could barely feel it, and after a day of seeing it all around him it wasn’t shocking anymore, either. It was like it had always been there, and he just hadn’t noticed it before.

What he _did_ notice, and continue noticing, was that the blister on his palm was even more sore, and still growing. It was something between a scab and a boil now, and while the skin on the bump itself had hardened into something dulled and nerveless, the skin of his hand around it was inflamed and tender. He didn't know if this was visible to anyone else yet, so he kept his hand in the pocket after the game, and now he left his hand in the sink and let running water flow over it. It seemed to help, a bit. The warm water helped mellow out the burning, and he could feel the liquid seeping through the hardened skin and into the sensitive flesh beneath. It should have been alarming, and he certainly was alarmed. But something about the sensation was soothing, too, and he closed his eyes. Cory gave himself ten seconds to let himself feel as afraid as he wanted, and after that he let himself focus on the relief.


End file.
